Liberi Reader

Phantoms roam here.

Not the spirits of the dead... but a shadow of history and memory.

Their voices have become clear.

They are familiar and warm, as though they came from a forgotten corner of her memory.

Just like how her name was called with scolding and love when she lingered too long in the garden.

Just like how her name was called with anxiety and urging when she sneaked out of the palace to see what was outside with curious eyes.

Just like how her name was called with pride and approval when she swung her little wooden sword, dreaming about becoming a warrior without equal.

But...

Who is calling her like this?

All in the procession begin treading lightly.

She is searching. She knows it is fruitless, but her eyes cannot help but search.

She stops before one of the statues.

It was never finished, leaving behind only a rough silhouette.

Chisel marks can be clearly seen, and an elaborate robe has yet to be liberated from the stone.

Where the face should be, there is only a blur of rock with the slight hint of eyes.

The crown on the head hints at the statue's position.

Was it him calling? Or all of them?

The statues do not look the same. Some of them look solemn, others look kind.

She finds no image of them in her memory, but feels some kind of connection with them, deep down.

The only ones who may style themselves Victoria are the monarchs of Victoria, and the heir to the throne.

Therefore, she is Victoria, just like them.

She looks away.

Compared to vast and glorious Victoria, she is more familiar with the tiny taverns of Norport Borough, the scalding bitterness of cheap ale, and licking a sour lollipop after a fight.

She turns away.

In that moment, she spots a shadow behind the statues.

They all grab their weapons.

She feels Allerdale's breath grow heavy.

Bronze continues to glitter in the shadows of the corpses.

Even history could not rob them of their color.

She keeps moving forward.

Allerdale stumbles. Siege extends an arm to hold her friend..

The burning palace, the golden mane.

She could not shake the images ever since she set foot within.

She hears the angry roaring of a man, plots being whispered in the shadows.

She hears laments and curses.

Frenzied cries, fateful announcements.

Roaring, scolding, sobbing, sneering.

She hears—

Drip.

The sound of tears falling.

Dagda tries her best to suppress her sobbing. The girl who calls herself a knight has never cried, no matter how desperate the situation is.

But now, tears are flowing down her face.

Siege walks up to her and puts her arms around her trembling shoulders.

Her gaze sweeps over each and every suit of unmoving armor.

She salutes them one by one.

Even though those within died years ago, even though she is holding a strange metal claw rather than a ceremonial sword, she performs the proper rites in accordance with tradition.

The veteran mercenary pats Dagda's shoulders.

It's the touch of a stranger, but it reminds her of the warmth of her long-dead comrades, how their palms gently touched her head and shoulders like this, time and again.

She never had the chance to mourn them, all those years away from Londinium.

The war is not over. It is not yet time to reminisce.

But as she gazes upon the broken armor of the Steam Knights, all the memories of the last battle of the Knights of the Tower gush to the surface.

She does not understand. Why is the end always like this, when there are so many people who love this land?

Why must heroes fade away quietly in the dark? Why are they never triumphant?

She can't take it anymore.

The suits of armor remain silent around them.

The voices mutter in protest.

Siege pretends not to hear, and repeats calmly, but strongly.

The voices fall silent. They are waiting for an answer too.